of a very rough kind. I called for Smith, my servant, and telling him tobring his entrenching tool, I began to prize up some of the tiles. Itwasn't very easy, fitting the blade of the entrenching tool into thecrevices, but once I had got a start and had got one or two out, thingswere easier.

I pulled up all the tiles along one wall about eight feet long and outinto the room a distance of about four feet. I now had a bare patch ofhard earth eight feet by four to contend with. Luckily we had a pickaxeand a shovel lying out behind the house, so taking off my sheepskinjacket and balaclava, I started off to excavate the hole which Iproposed should form a sort of cellar.

It was a big job, and my servant and I were hard at it, turn and turnabout, the whole of that day. A dull, rainy day, a cold wind blowing theold sack about in the doorway, and in the semi-darkness inside yourstruly handing up Belgian soil on a war-worn shovel to my servant, whoheld a sandbag perpetually open to receive it. A long and arduous job itwas, and one in which I was precious near thinking that danger ispreferable to digging. Mr. Doan, with his back-ache pills, would havedone well if he had sent one of his travellers with samples round therethat night. However, at the end of two days, I had got a really goodhole delved out, and now I was getting near the more interestingfeature, namely, putting a roof on, and finally being able to live inthis under-ground dug-out.

This roof was perhaps rather unique as roofs go. It was a large mattresswith wooden sides, a kind of oblong box with a mattress top. I found itoutside in a ruined cottage. Underneath the mattress part was a cavityfilled with spiral springs. I arranged a pile of sandbags at each sideof the hole in the floor in such a way as to be able to lay thiscuriosity on top to form a roof, the mattress part downwards. I thenfilled in with earth all the parts where the spiral springs were placed.Total result--a roof a foot thick of earth, with a good backbone of ironsprings. I often afterwards wished that that mattress had been filleted,as the spiral springs had a nasty way of bursting through the stripedcover and coming at you like the lid of a Jack-in-the-box. However, suchis war.

Above this roof I determined to pile up sandbags against the wall, rightaway up to the roof of the cottage.

This necessitated about forty sandbags being filled, so it may easily beimagined we didn't do this all at once.

However, in time, it was done--I mean after we had paid one or two morevisits to the trenches.

We all felt safer after these efforts. I think we were a bit safer, butnot much. I mean that we were fairly all right against anything but adirect hit, and as we knew from which direction direct hits had to come,we made that wall as thick as possible. We could, I think, have smiledat a direct hit from an 18-pounder, provided we had been down our funkhole at the time; but, of course, a direct hit from a "Johnson" wouldhave snuffed us completely (mattress and all).

Life in this house and in the village was much more interesting andenergetic than in that old trench. It was possible, by observing greatcaution, to creep out of the house by day and dodge about our position abit, crawl up to points of vantage and survey the scene. Behind thecottage lay the wood--the great Bois de Ploegstert--and this in itselfrepaid a visit. In the early months of 1915 this wood was in a prettymauled-about state, and as time went on of course got more so. It wasfull of old trenches, filled with water, relies of the period when weturned the Germans out of it. Shattered trees and old barbed wire in asolution of mud was the chief effect produced by the parts nearest thetrenches, but further back "Plugstreet Wood" was quite a pretty place towalk about in. Birds singing all around, and rabbits darting about thetangled undergrowth. Long paths had been cut through the wood leading tothe various parts of the trenches in front. A very quaint place, take itall in all, and one which has left a curious and not unpleasingimpression on my mind.

This ability to wander around and creep about various parts of ourposition, led to my getting an idea, which nearly finished my life inthe cottage, village, or even Belgium. I suddenly got bitten with thesniping fever, and it occurred to me that, with my facilities forgetting about, I could get into a certain mangled farm on our left andremain in the roof unseen in daylight. From there I felt sure that, withthe aid of a rifle, I could tickle up a Boche or two in their trencheshard by. I was immensely taken with this idea. So, one morning (likeRobinson Crusoe again) I set off with my fowling-piece and ammunition,and crawled towards the farm. I got there all right, and entering thedark and evil-smelling precincts, searched around for a suitable snipingpost. I saw a beam overhead in a corner from which, if I could get on toit, I felt sure I should obtain a view of the enemy trenches through agap in the tiled roof. I tied a bit of string to my rifle and thenjumping for the beam, scrambled up on it and pulled the rifle up afterme. When my heart pulsations had come down to a reasonable figure Ipeered out through the hole in the tiles. An excellent view! The Germanparapet a hundred yards away! Splendid!

Now I felt sure I should see a Boche moving about or something; or Imight possibly spot one looking over the top.

I waited a long time on that beam, with my loaded rifle lying in frontof me. I was just getting fed up with the waiting, and about to go away,when I thought I saw a movement in the trench opposite. Yes! it was. Isaw the handle of something like a broom or a water scoop moving abovethe sandbags. Heart doing overtime again! Most exciting! I feltconvinced I should see a Boche before long. And then, at last, I sawone--or rather I caught a glimpse of a hat appearing above the line ofthe parapet. One of those small circular cloth hats of theirs with thetwo trouser buttons in front.

Up it came, and I saw it stand out nice and clear against the skyline. Icarefully raised my rifle, took a steady aim, and fired. I looked:disappearance of hat! I ejected the empty cartridge case, and was justabout to reload when, whizz, whistle, bang, crash! a shell came right atthe farm, and exploded in the courtyard behind. I stopped short on thebeam. Whizz, whistle, bang, crash! Another, right into the old cowshedon my left. Without waiting for any more I just slithered down off thatbeam, grabbed my rifle and dashing out across the yard back into theditch beyond, started hastily scrambling along towards the end of one ofour trenches. As I went I heard four more shells crash into that farm.It was at this moment that I coined the title of one of my sketches,"They've evidently seen me," for which I afterwards drew the picturenear Wulverghem. I got back to our cottage, crawled into the hole in thefloor, and thought things over. They must have seen the flash of myrifle through the tiles, and, suspecting possible sniping from the farm,must have wired back to their artillery, "Snipingberg from farmenhausenhoch!" or words to that effect.

Altogether a very objectionable episode.

CHAPTER XIII

ROBINSON CRUSOE--THAT TURBULENT TABLE

By this time we had really got our little house quite snug. A hole inthe floor, a three-legged chair, and brown paper pushed into the largestof the holes in the walls--what more could a man want? However, we didwant something more, and that was a table. One gets tired of balancingtins of pl--(nearly said it again)--marmalade on one's knee and holdingan enamel cup in one hand and a pocket-knife in the other. So we allsaid how nice a table would be. I determined to say no more, but to showby deeds, not by words, that I would find a table and have one there bythe next day, like a fairy in a pantomime. I started off on my searchone night. Take it from me--a fairy's is a poor job out there, and whenyou've read the next bit you'll agree.

Behind our position stood the old ruined chateau, and beyond it one ortwo scattered cottages. I had never really had a good look at all atthat part, and as I knew some of our reserve trenches ran around there,and that it would be a good thing to know all about them, I decided toask the Colonel for permission to creep off one afternoon and explorethe whole thing; incidentally I might by good luck find a table. It waspossible, by wriggling up a mud valley and crawling over a few scatteredremnants of houses and bygone trenches to reach the Colonel'sheadquarter dug-out in daytime. So I did it, and asked leave to go offback to have a look at the chateau and the land about it. He gave mepermission, so armed with my long walking-stick (a billiard cue with thethin part cut off, which I found on passing another chateau one night) Istarted off to explore.

I reached the chateau. An interesting sight it was. How many shells hadhit it one couldn't even guess, but the results indicated a good few.What once had been well-kept lawns were now covered with articles whichwould have been much better left in their proper places. One suddenlycame upon half a statue of Minerva or Venus wrapped in three-quarters ofa stair carpet in the middle of one of the greenhouses. Passing on, onewould find the lightning conductor projecting out through the tapestriedseat of a Louis Quinze chair. I never saw such a mess.

Inside, the upstairs rooms were competing with the ground-floor ones, asto which should get into the cellars first. It was really too terribleto contemplate the fearful destruction.

I found it impossible to examine much of the interior of the chateau, asblocks of masonry and twisted iron girders closed up most of the doorsand passages. I left this melancholy ruin, full of thought, andproceeded across the shell-pitted gardens towards the few littlecottages beyond. These were in a better state of preservation, and werewell worth a visit. In the first one I entered I found a table! the verything I wanted. It was stuck away in a small lean-to at the back. A nicelittle green one, just the size to suit us.

I determined to get it back to our shack somehow, but before doing sowent on rummaging about these cottages. In the second cottage I made anenormously lucky find for us. Under a heap of firewood in an outhouse Ifound a large pile of coal. This was splendid, and would be invaluableto us and our fire-bucket. Nothing pleased me more than this, as thecold was very severe, and a fire meant so much to us. When I hadcompleted my investigations and turned over all the oddments lying aboutto see if there was anything else of use to us, I started off on thereturn journey. It was now dark, and I was able to walk along withoutfear of being seen. Of course, I was taking the table with me. I decidedto come back later for the coal, with a few sandbags for filling, so Icovered it over and hid it as much as possible. (Sensation: Ali Babareturns from the forest.) I started off with the table. I had aboutthree-quarters of a mile to go. Every hundred yards I had to sit downand rest. A table is a horrible thing to accompany one on a mile walk.

I reached the chateau again, and out into the fields beyond, restingwith my burden about three times before I got to the road which ledstraight on to our trenches. My task was a bit harder now, as I was infull view of the German trenches. Had it been daylight they could haveseen me quite easily.

Fortunately it was dark, but, of course, star shells would show one upquite distinctly. I staggered on down the road with the green table onmy back, pausing as little as possible, but a rest had to be taken, andthis at a very exposed part of the road. I put the table down and satpanting on the top. A white streak shot into the air--a star shell.Curse! I sprang off the green top and waltzed with my four-legged woodenoctopus into the ditch at the side, where I lay still, waiting for thelight to die out. Suspense over. I went on again.

At last I got back with that table and pushed it into our hovel underthe sack doorway.

Immense success! "Just the thing we wanted!"

We all sat down to dinner that night in the approved fashion, whilst I,with the air of a conspirator, narrated the incredible story of the vastEldorado of coal which I had discovered, and, over our shrimp paste andbiscuits we discussed plans for its removal.

So you see, life in our cottage was quite interesting and adventurous inits way. At night our existence was just the same as before; all thenormal work of trench life. Making improvements to our trenches led toendless work with sandbags, planks, dug-outs, etc. My particular job wasmostly improving machine-gun positions, or selecting new sites andcarrying out removals,

And so the long dark dreary nights went on. The men garrisoning thelittle cracked-up village lived mostly in cellars. Often on my rounds,during a rainy, windy, mournful night, I would look into a cellar andsee a congested mass of men playing cards by the light of a candle stuckon a tin lid. A favourite form of illumination I came across was a lampmade out of an empty tobacco tin, rifle oil for the illuminant, and abit of a shirt for a wick!

People who read all these yarns of mine, and who have known the war inlater days, will say, "Ah, how very different it was then to now." In mylast experiences in the war I have watched the enormous changes creepingin. They began about July, 1915. My experiences since that date werevery interesting; but I found that much of the romance had left thetrenches. The old days, from the beginning to July, 1915, were all sodelightfully precarious and primitive. Amateurish trenches and rough andready life, which to my mind gave this war what it sadly needs--a touchof romance.

Way back there, in about January, 1915, our soldiers had a perfectlyunique test of human endurance against appalling climatic conditions.They lived in a vast bog, without being able to utilize moderncontrivances for making the tight against adverse conditions anythinglike an equal contest. And yet I wouldn't have missed that time foranything, and I'm sure they wouldn't either.

Those who have not actually had to experience it, or have not had theopportunity to see what our men "stuck out" in those days, will neverfully grasp the reality.

One night a company commander came to me in the village and told me hehad got a bit of trench under his control which was altogetherimpossible to hold, and he wanted me to come along with him to look atit, and see if I could do anything in the way of holding the position bymachine guns. His idea was that possibly a gun might be fixed in such aplace behind so as to cover the frontage occupied by this trench. I camealong with him to have a look and see what could be done. He and I wentup the rain-soaked village street and out on to the field beyond. It wasas dark as pitch, and about 11 p.m. Occasional shots cracked out of thedarkness ahead from the German trenches, and I remember one inparticular that woke us up a bit. A kind of derelict road-roller stoodat one side of the field, and as we passed this, walking pretty closetogether, a bullet whizzed between us. I don't know which head it wasnearest to, but it was quite near enough for both of us. We went onacross the field for about two hundred yards, out towards a pile ofruins which had once been a barn, and which stood between our lines andthe Germans.

Near this lay the trench which he had been telling me about. It wasquite the worst I have ever seen. A number of men were in it, standingand leaning, silently enduring the following conditions. It was quitedark. The enemy was about two hundred yards away, or rather less. It wasraining, and the trench contained over three feet of water. The men,therefore, were standing up to the waist in water. The front parapet wasnothing but a rough earth mound which, owing to the water about, waspractically non-existent. Their rifles lay on the saturated mound infront. They were all wet through and through, with a great deal of theirequipment below the water at the bottom of the trench. There they were,taking it all as a necessary part of the great game; not a grumble nor acomment.

The company commander and I at once set about scheming out analternative plan. Some little distance back we found a cellar which hadonce been below a house. Now there was no house, so by standing in thecellar one got a view along the ground and level with it. This was thevery place for a machine gun. So we decided on fixing one there andmaking a sort of roof over a portion of the cellar for the gunners tolive in. After about a couple of hours' work we completed thisarrangement, and then removed the men, who, it was arranged, shouldleave the trenches that night and go back to our billets for a rest,till the next time up. We weren't quite content with the total safety ofour one gun in that cellar, so we started off on a further idea.

Our trenches bulged out in a bit of a salient to the right of the rottentrench, and we decided to mount another gun at a certain projection inour lines so as to enfilade the land across which the other gun wouldfire.

On inspecting the projected site we found it was necessary to makerather an abnormally high parapet to stand the gun on. No sandbags tospare, of course, so the question was, "What shall we make a parapetof?"

We plodded off back to the village and groped around the ruins forsomething solid and high enough to carry the gun. After about an hour'sclimbing about amongst debris in the dark, and hauling ourselves up intoremnants of attics, etc., we came upon a sewing machine. It was one ofthat sort that's stuck on a wooden table with a treadle arrangementunderneath. We saw an idea at a glance. Pull off the sewing machine, anduse the table. It was nearly high enough, and with just three or foursandbags we felt certain it would do. We performed the necessarysurgical operation on the machine, and taking it in turns, padded offdown to the front line trench. We had a bit of a job with that table.The parapet was a jumbled assortment of sandbags, clay, and old bricksfrom the neighbouring barn: but we finally got a good sound parapetmade, and in about another hour's time had fixed a machine gun, withplenty of ammunition, in a very unattractive position from the Bochepoint of view. We all now felt better, and I'm certain that the men whoheld that trench felt better too. But I am equally certain that theywould have stayed there _ad lib_ even if we hadn't thought of andcarried out an alternative arrangement. A few more nights of rain,danger and discomfort, then the time would come for us to be relieved,and those same men would be back at billets, laughing, talking andsmoking, buoyant as ever.

CHAPTER XV

ARRIVAL OF THE "JOHNSONS"--"WHEREDID THAT ONE GO?"--THE FIRST FRAGMENTDISPATCHED--THE EXODUS--WHERE?

Shortly after these events we experienced rather a nasty time in thevillage. It had been decided, way back somewhere at headquarters, thatit was essential to hold the village in a stronger way than we had beendoing. More men were to be kept there, and a series of trenches dug inand around it, thus forming means for an adequate defence shoulddisaster befall our front line trenches, which lay out on a radius ofabout five hundred yards from the centre of the village. This meantworking parties at night, and a pretty considerable collection ofsoldiers lurking in cavities in various ruined buildings by day.

Anyone will know that when a lot of soldiers congregate in a place it isalmost impossible to prevent someone or other being seen, or smoke fromsome fire showing, or, even worse, a light visible at night from someimperfectly shuttered house.

At all events, something or other gave the Boches the tip, and we soonknew they had got their attention on our village.

Each morning as we clustered round our little green table and had ourbreakfast, we invariably had about half a dozen rounds of 18-pounderscrash around us with varying results, but one day, as we'd finished ourmeal and all sat staring into the future, we suddenly caught the soundof something on more corpulent lines arriving. That ponderous, slowrotating whistle of a "Johnson" caught our well-trained ears; a pause!then a reverberating, hollow-sounding "crumph!" We looked at each other.

"Heavies!" we all exclaimed.

"Look out! here comes another!" and sure enough there it was, thatgargling crescendo of a whistle followed by a mighty crash, considerablynearer.

We soon decided that our best plan was to get out of the house, and stayin the ditch twenty yards away until it was over.

A house is an unwholesome spot to be in when there's shelling about. Ourfunk hole was all right for whizz-bangs and other fireworks of thatsort, but no use against these portmanteaux they were now sending along.

Well, to resume; they put thirteen heavies into that village in prettyquick time. One old ruin was set on fire, and I felt the consequentresults would be worse than just losing the building; as all the men init had to rush outside and keep darting in and out through the flamesand smoke, trying to save their rifles and equipment.

After a bit we returned into the house--a trifle prematurely, I'mafraid--as presently a pretty large line in explosive drainpipes landedclose outside, and, as we afterwards discovered, blew out a fair-sizedduck pond in the road. We were all inside, and I think nearly every onesaid a sentence which gave me my first idea for a _Fragment fromFrance_. A sentence which must have been said countless times in thiswar, _i.e._, "Where did that one go?"

We were all inside the cottage now, with intent, staring faces, lookingoutside through the battered doorway. There was something in the wholesituation which struck me as so pathetically amusing, that when theardour of the Boches had calmed down a bit, I proceeded to make a pencilsketch of the situation. When I got back to billets the next time Idetermined to make a finished wash drawing of the scene, and send it tosome paper or other in England. In due course we got back to billets,and the next morning I fished out my scanty drawing materials from myvalise, and sitting at a circular table in one of the rooms at the farm,I did a finished drawing of "Where did that one go," occasionallylooking through the window on to a mountain of manure outside forinspiration.

The next thing was to send it off. What paper should I send it to? I hadhad a collection of papers sent out to me at Christmas time from someone or other. A few of these were still lying about. A _Bystander_ wasamongst them. I turned over the pages and considered for a bit whethermy illustrated joke might be in their line. I thought of several otherpapers, but on the whole concluded that the _Bystander_ would suit forthe purpose, and so, having got the address off the cover, I packed upmy drawing round a roll of old paper, enclosed it in brown paper, andput it out to be posted at the next opportunity. In due course it wentto the post, and I went to the trenches again, forgetting all about theincident.

Next time in the trenches was full of excitement. We had done a coupleof days of the endless mud, rain, and bullet-dodging work when suddenlyone night we heard we were to be relieved and go elsewhere. Every onethen thought of only one thing--where were we going? We all haddifferent ideas. Some said we were bound for Ypres, which we heard atthat time was a pretty "warm" spot; some said La Bassee was ourdestination--"warm," but not quite as much so as Ypres. Wild rumoursthat we were going to Egypt were of course around; they always are.There was another beauty: that we were going back to England for a rest!

The night after the news, another battalion arrived, and, after handingover our trenches, we started off on the road to "Somewhere in France."It was about 11.30 p.m. before we had handed over everything and finallyparted from those old trenches of ours. I said good-bye to our littleperforated hovel, and set off with all my machine gunners and guns forthe road behind the wood, to go--goodness knows where. We looked backover our shoulders several times as we plodded along down the muddy roadand into the corduroy path which ran through the wood. There, behind us,lay St. Yvon, under the moonlight and drifting clouds; a silhouettedmass of ruins beyond the edge of the wood. Still the same oldintermittent cracking of the rifle shots and the occasional star shell.It was quite sad parting with that old evil-smelling, rain-soaked sceneof desolation. We felt how comfortable we had all been there, now thatwe were leaving. And leaving for what?--that was the question. When Ireached the road, and had superintended loading up our limbers, I gotinstructions from the transport officer as to which way we were to go.The battalion had already gone on ahead, and the machine-gun section wasthe last to leave. We were to go down the road to Armentieres, and atabout twelve midnight we started on our march, rattling off down theroad leading to Armentieres, bound for some place we had never seenbefore. At about 2 a.m. we got there; billets had been arranged for us,but at two in the morning it was no easy task to find the quartersallotted to us without the assistance of a guide. The battalion had gotthere first, had found their billets and gone to bed. I and themachine-gun section rattled over the cobbles into sleeping Armentieres,and hadn't the slightest idea where we had to go. Nobody being about totell us, we paraded the town like a circus procession for about an hourbefore finally finding out where we were to billet, and ultimately wereached our destination when, turning into the barns allotted to us, wemade the most of what remained of the night in well-earned repose.

CHAPTER XVI

NEW TRENCHES--THE NIGHT INSPECTION--LETTER FROM THE "BYSTANDER"

Next day we discovered the mystery of our sudden removal. The battle ofNeuve Chapelle was claiming considerable attention, and that was wherewe were going. We were full of interest and curiosity, and were all forgetting there as soon as possible. But it was not to be. Mysteriousmoves were being made behind the scenes which I, and others like me,will never know anything about; but, anyway, we now suddenly got anotherbewildering order. After a day spent in Armentieres we were told tostand by for going back towards Neuve Eglise again, just the directionfrom which we had come. We all knew too much about the war to besurprised at anything, so we mutely prepared for another exit. It was adaylight march this time, and a nice, still, warm day. Quite a cheery,interesting march we had, too, along the road from Armentieres to NeuveEglise. We were told that we were to march past General Sir Horace SmithDorrien, whom we should find waiting for us near the Pont de Nieppe--aplace we had to pass _en route_. Every one braced up at this, and keenlylooked forward to reaching Nieppe. I don't know why, but I had an ideahe would be in his car on the right of the road. To make no mistake Imuttered "Eyes right" to myself for about a quarter of a mile, so as tomake a good thing of the salute. We came upon the Pont de Nieppesuddenly, round the corner, and there was the General--on the left! Allmy rehearsing useless. Annoying, but I suppose one can't expect Generalsto tell you where they are going to stand.

We reached Neuve Eglise in time, and went into our old billets. We allthought our fate was "back into those ---- old Plugstreet trenchesagain," but _mirabile dictu_--it was not to be so. The second day inbillets I received a message from the Colonel to proceed to hisheadquarter farm. I went, and heard the news. We were to take over a newline of trenches away to the left of Plugstreet, and that night I was toaccompany him along with all the company commanders on a round ofinspection.

A little before dusk we started off and proceeded along various roadstowards the new line. All the country was now brand new to me, and fullof interest. After we had gone about a mile and a half the character ofthe land changed. We had left all the Plugstreet wood effect behind, andnow emerged on to far more open and flatter ground. By dusk we weregoing down a long straight road with poplar trees on either side. At theend of this stood a farm on the right. We walked into the courtyard andacross it into the farm. This was the place the battalion we were goingto relieve had made its headquarters. Not a bad farm. The roof was stillon, I noticed, and concluded from that that life there was evidentlypassable. We had to wait here some time, as we were told that the enemycould see for a great distance around there, and would pepper up thefarm as sure as fate if they saw anyone about. Our easy-going entry intothe courtyard had not been received with great favour, as it appeared wewere doing just the very thing to get the roof removed. However, thedusk had saved us, I fancy.

[Illustration: Comin' on down to the Estaminet tonight, Arry?]

As soon as it was really dark we all sallied forth, accompanied byguides this time, who were to show us the trenches. I crept along behindour Colonel, with my eyes peeled for possible gun positions, anddrinking in as many details of the entire situation as I could.

We walked about ten miles that night, I should think, across unfamiliarswamps and over unsuspected antique abandoned trenches, past dead cowsand pigs. We groped about the wretched shell-pitted fields, examiningthe trenches we were about to take over. You would be surprised to findhow difficult a simple line of trenches can seem at night if you havenever seen them before.

You don't seem able to get the angles, somehow, nor to grasp how thewhole situation faces, or how you get from one part to another, and allthat sort of thing. I know that by the time I had been along the wholelot, round several hundred traverses, and up dozens of communicationtrenches and saps, all my mariner-like ability for finding my way backto Neuve Eglise had deserted me. Those guides were absolutely necessaryin order to get us back to the headquarter farm. One wants a compass,the pole star, and plenty of hope ever to get across those enormousprairies--known as fields out there--and reach the place at the otherside one wants to get to. It is a long study before you really learn thesimplest and best way up to your own bit of trench; but when it comes tolearning everybody else's way up as well (as a machine gunner has to),it needs a long and painful course of instruction--higher branches ofthis art consisting of not only knowing the way up, but the _safest_ wayup.

The night we carried out this tour of inspection we were all left in afog as to how we had gone to and returned from the trenches. After wehad got in we knew, by long examination of the maps, how everythinglay, but it was some time before we had got the real practical hang ofit all.

Our return journey from the inspection was a pretty silent affair. Weall knew these were a nasty set of trenches. Not half so pleasant as thePlugstreet ones. The conversations we had with the present owners madeit quite clear that warm times were the vogue round there. Altogether wecould see we were in for a "bit of a time."

We cleared off back to Neuve Eglise that night, and next day took thosetrenches over. This was the beginning of my life at Wulverghem. When wegot in, late that night, we found that the post had arrived some timebefore. Thinking there might be something for me, I went into the backroom where they sorted the letters, to get any there might be beforegoing off to my own billets. "There's only one for you, sir, to-night,"said the corporal who looked after the letters. He handed me anenvelope. I opened it. Inside, a short note and a cheque.

"We shall be very glad to accept your sketch, 'Where did that one goto?' From the _Bystander_"--the foundation-stone of _Fragments fromFrance_.

CHAPTER XVII

WULVERGHEM--THE DOUVE--CORDUROYBOARDS--BACK AT OUR FARM

We got out of the frying-pan into the fire when we went to Wulverghem--amuch more exciting and precarious locality than Plugstreet. During allmy war experiences I have grown to regard Plugstreet as the unit oftranquillity. I have never had the fortune to return there since thosetimes mentioned in previous chapters. When you leave Plugstreet you takeaway a pleasing memory of slime and reasonable shelling, which is morethan you can say for the other places. If you went to Plugstreet after,say, the Ypres Salient, it would be more or less like going to aconvalescent home after a painful operation.

But, however that may be, we were now booked for Wulverghem, or ratherthe trenches which lie along the base of the Messines ridge, about amile in front of that shattered hamlet. Two days after our tour ofinspection we started off to take over. The nuisance about thesetrenches was that the point where one had to unload and proceed acrosscountry, man-handling everything, was abnormally far away from thefiring line. We had about a mile and a half to do after we had marchedcollectively as a battalion, so that my machine-gunners were obliged tocarry the guns and all the tackle we needed all that distance to theirtrenches. This, of course, happened every time we "came in."

The land where these trenches lay was a vast and lugubrious expanse ofmud, with here and there a charred and ragged building. On our right laythe River Douve, and, on our left, the trenches turned a corner backinwards again. In front lay the long line of the Messines ridge. TheBoches had occupied this ridge, and our trenches ran along the valley atits foot. The view which the Boches got by being perched on this hillrendered them exactly what their soul delights in, _i.e._, "uber alles."They can see for miles. However, those little disadvantages have notprevented us from efficiently maintaining our trenches at the far end ofthe plain, in spite of the difficulty of carrying material across thisflat expanse.

I forget what night of the week we went in and took over those trenches,but, anyhow, it was a precious long one. I had only seen the place oncebefore, and in the darkness of the night had a long and arduous jobfinding the way to the various positions allotted for my guns, burdenedas I was with all my sections and impedimenta. I imagine I walked aboutfive or six miles that night. We held a front of about a mile, and,therefore, not only did I have to do the above-mentioned mile and ahalf, but also two or three miles going from end to end of our line. Itwas as dark as could be, and the unfamiliar ground seemed to be pittedlike a Gruyere cheese with shell holes. Unlimbering back near a farm wesloshed off across the mud flat towards the section of trench which wehad been ordered to occupy. I trusted to instinct to strike the rightangles for coming out at the trenches which henceforth were to be ours.In those days my machine guns were the old type of Maxim--a very weightyconcern. To carry these guns and all the necessary ammunition acrossthis desert was a long and very exhausting process. Occasional bursts ofmachine-gun fire and spent bullets "zipping" into the mud all aroundhardly tended to cheer the proceedings. The path along to the right-handset of trenches, where I knew a couple of guns must go, was lavishlystrewn with dead cows and pigs. When we paused for a rest we alwaysseemed to do so alongside some such object, and consequently there wasno hesitation in moving on again. None of us had the slightest idea asto the nature of the country on which we were now operating. I myselfhad only seen it by night, and nobody else had been there at all.

The commencement of the journey from the farm of disembarkation layalong what is known as corduroy boards. These are short, rough, woodenplanks, nailed crossways on long baulks of timber. This kind of path isa very popular one at the front, and has proved an immense aid in savingthe British army from being swallowed up in the mud.

The corduroy path ran out about four hundred yards across the grassless,sodden field. We then came suddenly to the beginning of a road. A smallcottage stood on the right, and in front of it a dead cow. Here weunfortunately paused, but almost immediately moved on (gas masks weren'tintroduced until much later!).

From this point the road ran in a long straight line towards Messines.At intervals, on the right-hand side only, stood one or two farms, or,rather, their skeletons. As we went along in the darkness these farmssilhouetted their dreary remains against the faint light in the sky, andlooked like vast decayed wrecks of antique Spanish galleons upside down.On past these farms the road was suddenly cut across by a deep and uglygash: a reserve trench. So now we were getting nearer to ourdestination. A particularly large and evil-smelling farm stood on theright. The reserve trench ran into its back yard, and disappearedamongst the ruins. From the observations I had made, when inspectingthese trenches, I knew that the extreme right of our position was a bitto the right of this farm, so I and my performing troupe decided to gothrough the farmyard and out diagonally across the field in front. Wedid this, and at last could dimly discern the line of the trenches infront. We were now on the extreme right of the section we had tocontrol, close to the River Douve, and away to the left ran the wholeline of our trenches. Along the whole length of this line the businessof taking over from the old battalion was being enacted. That oldbattalion made a good bargain when they handed over that lot of slots tous. The trenches lay in a sort of echelon formation, the one on theextreme right being the most advanced. This one we made for, and as wesquelched across the mud to it a couple of German star shells fizzed upinto the air and illuminated the whole scene. By their light I could seethe whole position, but could only form an approximate idea of how ourlines ran, as our parapets and trenches merged into the mud soeffectively as to look like a vast, tangled, disorderly mass ofsandbags, slime and shell holes. We reached the right-hand trench. Itwas a curious sort of a trench too, quite a different pattern to thosewe had occupied at St. Yvon, The first thing that struck me about allthese trenches was the quantity of sandbags there were, and thegeometrical exactness of the attempts at traverses, fire steps, bays,etc. Altogether, theoretically, much superior trenches, although verycramped and narrow. I waited for another star shell in order to see theview out in front. One hadn't long to wait around there for star shells.One very soon sailed up, nice and white, into the inky sky, and I sawhow we were placed with regard to the Germans, the hill and Messines. Wewere quite near a little stream, a tributary of the Douve, in fact itran along the front of our trenches. Immediately on the other side theground rose in a gradual slope up the Messines hill, and aboutthree-quarters way up this slope were the German trenches.

When I had settled the affairs of the machine guns in the right-handtrench I went along the line and fixed up the various machine-gun teamsin the different trenches as I came to them. The ground above thetrenches was so eaten away by the filling of sandbags and the cavitiescaused by shell fire, that I found it far quicker and simpler to walkalong in the trenches themselves, squeezing past the men standing aboutand around the thick traverses. Our total frontal length must have beenthree-quarters of a mile, I should think. This, our first night in, wasa pretty busy one. Dug-outs had to be found to accommodate every one;platoons arranged in all the sections of trench, all the hundred-and-onedetails which go to making trench life as secure and comfortable as ispossible under the circumstances, had to be seen to and arranged. I hadfixed up all the sections by about ten o'clock and then started alongthe lines again trying to get as clear an idea as possible of the entiresituation of the trenches, the type of land in front of each, the meansof access to each trench, and possible improvements in the various gunpositions. All this had to be done to the accompaniment of a prettylively mixture of bullets and star shells. Sniping was pretty severethat night, and, indeed, all the time we were in those Douve trenches.There was an almost perpetual succession of rifle shots, intermingledwith the rapid crackling of machine-gun fire. However, you soon learnout there that you can just as easily "get one" on the calmest night byan accidental spent bullet as you can when a little hate is on, andbullets are coming thick and fast. The first night we came to the Douvewas a pretty calm one, comparatively speaking; yet one poor chap in theleading platoon, going through the farm courtyard I mentioned, got shotright through the forehead. No doubt whatever it was an accidentalbullet, and not an aimed shot, as the Germans could not have possiblyseen the farm owing to the darkness of the night.

Just as I was finishing my tour of inspection I came across the Colonel,who was going round everything, and thoroughly reconnoitring theposition. He asked me to show him the gun positions. I went with himright along the line. We stood about on parapets, and walked all overthe place, stopping motionless now and again as a star shell went up,and moving on again just in time to hear a bullet or two whizz pastbehind and go "smack" into a tree in the hedge behind, or "plop" intothe mud parados. When the Colonel had finished his tour of inspection heasked me to walk back with him to his headquarters. "Where are youliving, Bairnsfather?" said the Colonel to me. "I don't know, sir," Ireplied. "I thought of fixing up in that farm (I indicated the mostaromatized one by the reserve trench) and making some sort of a dug-outif there isn't a cellar; it's a fairly central position for all thetrenches."

The Colonel thought for a moment: "You'd better come along back to thefarm on the road for to-night anyway, and you can spend to-morrowdecorating the walls with a few sketches," he said. This was a decidedlybetter suggestion, a reprieve, in fact, as prior to this remark mybedroom for the night looked like being a borrowed ground sheet slungover some charred rafters which were leaning against a wall in the yard.

I followed along behind the Colonel down the road, down the corduroyboards, and out at the old moated farm not far from Wulverghem. Thankgoodness, I should get a floor to sleep on! A roof, too! Straw on thefloor! How splendid!

It was quite delightful turning into that farm courtyard, and enteringthe building. Dark, dismal and deserted as it was, it afforded animmense, glowing feeling of comfort after that mysterious, dark andwintry plain, with its long lines of grey trenches soaking away thereunder the inky sky.

Inside I found an empty room with some straw on the floor. There wasonly one shell hole in it, but some previous tenant had stopped it upwith a bit of sacking. My word, I was tired! I rolled myself round withstraw, and still retaining all my clothes, greatcoat, balaclava,muffler, trench boots, I went to sleep.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE PAINTER AND DECORATOR--FRAGMENTSFORMING--NIGHT ON THE MUD PRAIRIE

Had a fairly peaceful night. I say fairly because when one has to get upthree or four times to see whether the accumulated rattle of rifle fireis going to lead to a battle, or turn out only to be merely "wind up,"it rather disturbs one's rest. You see, had an attack of some sort comeon, yours truly would have had to run about a mile and a half to somecentral spot to overlook the machine-gun department. I used to thinkthat to be actually with one gun was the best idea, but I subsequentlyfound that this plan hampered me considerably from getting to my others;the reason being that, once established in one spot during an opentrench attack, it is practically impossible to get to another partwhilst the action is on.

At the Douve, however, I discovered a way of getting round this which Iwill describe later.

On this first night, not being very familiar with the neighbourhood, Ifound it difficult to ignore the weird noises which floated in throughthe sack-covered hole. There is something very eerie and strange aboutechoing rifle shots in the silence of the night. Once I got up andwalked out into the courtyard of the farm, and passing through it cameout on to the end of the road. All as still as still could be, exceptthe distant intermittent cracking of the rifles coming from away acrossthe plain, beyond the long straight row of lofty poplar trees whichmarked the road. A silence of some length might supervene, in which onewould only hear the gentle rustling of the leaves; then suddenly, faraway on the right, a faint surging roar can be heard, and then louderand louder. "Wind up over there." Then, gradually, silence would assertitself once more and leave you with nothing but the rustling leaves andthe crack of the sniper's rifle on the Messines ridge.

My first morning at this farm was, by special request, to be spent indecorating the walls.

There wasn't much for anyone to do in the day time, as nobody could goout. The same complaint as the other place in St. Yvon: "We mustn't lookas if anyone lives in the farm." Drawing, therefore, was a great aid tome in passing the day. Whilst at breakfast I made a casual examinationof the room where we had our meals. I was not the first to draw on thewalls of that room. Some one in a previous battalion had already putthree or four sketches on various parts of the fire-place. Several largespaces remained all round the room, however; but I noticed that thesurface was very poor compared with the wall round the fire-place.

The main surface was a rough sort of thing, and, on regarding itclosely, it looked as if it was made of frozen porridge, being slightlyrough, and of a grey-brown colour. I didn't know what on earth I coulduse to draw on this surface, but after breakfast I started to scheme outsomething. I went into the back room, which we were now using as akitchen, and finding some charcoal I tried that. It was quiteuseless--wouldn't make a mark on the wall at all. Why, I don't know; butthe charcoal just glided about and merely seemed to make dents andscratches on the "frozen porridge." I then tried to make up a mixture.It occurred to me that possibly soot might be made into a sort of ink,and used with a paint brush. I tried this, but drew a blank again. I wasbordering on despair, when my servant said he thought he had put abottle of Indian ink in my pack when we left to come into the trenchesthis time. He had a look, and found that his conjecture was right; hehad got a bottle of Indian ink and a few brushes, as he thought I mightwant to draw something, so had equipped the pack accordingly.

I now started my fresco act on the walls of the Douve farm.

I spent most of the day on the job, and discovered how some startlingeffects could be produced.

Materials were: A bottle of Indian ink, a couple of brushes, about ahundredweight of useless charcoal, and a G.S. blue and red pencil.

Amongst the rough sketches that I did that day were the originaldrawings for two subsequent "Fragments" of mine.

One was the rough idea for "They've evidently seen me," and the otherwas "My dream for years to come." The idea for "They've evidently seenme" came whilst carrying back that table to St. Yvon, as I mentioned ina previous chapter, but the scenario for the idea was not provided foruntil I went to this farm some time later. In intervals of working atthe walls I rambled about the farm building, and went up into a loftover a barn at the end of the farm nearest the trenches. I looked outthrough a hole in the tiles just in time to hear a shell come over fromaway back amongst the Germans somewhere, and land about five hundredyards to the left. The sentence, "They've evidently seen me," cameflashing across my mind again, and I now saw the correct setting in mymind: _i.e._, the enthusiastic observer looking out of the top of anarrow chimney, whilst a remarkably well-aimed shell leads "him of thebinoculars" to suppose that they _have_ seen him.

I came downstairs and made a pencil sketch of my idea, and before I leftthe trenches that time I had done a wash drawing and sent it to England.This was my second "Fragment."

The other sketch, "My dream for years to come," was drawn on one wallof a small apple or potato room, opening off our big room, and thedrawing occupied the whole wall.

[Illustration: porters]

I knocked off drawing about four o'clock, and did a little of thealternative occupation, that of looking out through the cracked windowson to the mutilated courtyard in front. It was getting darker now, andnearing the time when I had to put on all my tackle, and gird myself upfor my round of the trenches. As soon as it was nearly dark I startedout. The other officers generally left a bit later, but as I had such along way to go, and as I wanted to examine the country while there wasyet a little light, I started at dusk. Not yet knowing exactly how muchthe enemy could see on the open mud flat, I determined to go along bythe river bank, and by keeping among the trees I hoped to escapeobservation. I made for the Douve, and soon got along as far as the rowof farms. I explored all these, and a shocking sight they were. Allcharred and ruined, and the skeleton remains slowly decomposing awayinto the unwholesome ground about them. I went inside several of thedismantled rooms. Nearly all contained old and battered bits ofsoldiers' equipment, empty tins, and remnants of Belgian property. Sadrelics of former billeting: a living reminder of the rough times thathad preceded our arrival in this locality. I passed on to another farm,and entered the yard near the river. It was nearly full of black woodencrosses, roughly made and painted over with tar. All that was left tomark the graves of those who had died to get our trenches where theywere--at the bottom of the Messines ridge. A bleak and sombre winter'snight, that courtyard of the ruined farm, the rows of crosses--I oftenthink of it all now.

As the darkness came on I proceeded towards the trenches, and when ithad become sufficiently dark I entered the old farm by the reservetrench and crossed the yard to enter the field which led to the first ofour trenches. At St. Yvon it was pretty airy work, going the rounds atnight, but this was a jolly sight more so. The country was far moreopen, and although the Boches couldn't see us, yet they kept up anincessant sniping demonstration. Picking up my sergeant at Number 1trench, he and I started on our tour.

We made a long and exhaustive examination that night, both of theexisting machine-gun emplacements and of the entire ground, with a viewto changing our positions. It was a long time before I finally left thetrenches and started off across the desolate expanse to the Douve farm,and I was dead beat when I arrived there. On getting into the big room Ifound the Colonel, who had just come in. "Where's that right-hand gun ofyours, Bairnsfather?" he asked. "Down on the right of Number 2 trench,sir," I answered; "just by the two willows near the sap which runs outtowards Number 1." "It's not much of a place for it," he said; "where weought to have it is to the right of the sap, so that it enfilades thewhole front of that trench." "When do you want it moved, sir?" I asked."Well, it ought to be done at once; it's no good where it is."

That fixed it. I knew what he wanted; so I started out again, back overthe mile and a half to alter the gun. It was a weary job; but I wouldhave gone on going back and altering the whole lot for our Colonel, whowas the best line in commanding officers I ever struck. Every one hadthe most perfect confidence in him. He was the most shell, bullet, andbomb defying person I have ever seen. When I got back for the secondtime that night I was quite ready to roll up in the straw, and be lulledoff to sleep by the cracking rifle fire outside.

CHAPTER XIX

VISIONS OF LEAVE--DICK TURPIN--LEAVE!

Our first time in the Douve trenches was mainly uneventful, but we alldecided it was not as pleasant as St. Yvon. For my part, it was fiftyper cent. worse than St. Yvon; but I was now buoyed up by a new light inthe sky, which made the first time in more tolerable than it mightotherwise have been. It was getting near my turn for leave! I had beenlooking forward to this for a long time, but there were many who had totake their turn in front of me, so I had dismissed the case for a bit.Recently, however, the powers that be had been sending more than oneofficer away at a time; consequently my turn was rapidly approaching. Wecame away back to billets in the usual way after our first dose of theDouve, and all wallowed off to our various billeting quarters. I was hotand strong on the leave idea now. It was really getting close and Ifelt disposed to find everything _couleur de rose_. Even the manure heapin the billeting farm yard looked covered with roses. I could havethrown a bag of confetti at the farmer's wife--it's most exhilarating tothink of the coming of one's first leave. One maps out what one will dowith the time in a hundred different ways. I was wondering how I couldmanage to transport my souvenirs home, as I had collected a pretty goodsupply by this time--shell cases, fuse tops, clogs, and that Boche rifleI got on Christmas Day.

One morning (we had been about two days out) I got a note from theAdjutant to say I could put in my application. I put it in all right andthen sat down and hoped for the best.

My spirits were now raised to such a pitch that I again decided to rideto Nieppe--just for fun.

I rode away down the long winding line, smiling at everything on eitherside--the three-sailed windmill with the top off; the estaminet with thehole through the gable end--all objects seemed to radiate peace andgoodwill. There was a very bright sun in the sky that day. I rode downto the high road, and cantered along the grass at the side into Nieppe.Just as I entered the town I met a friend riding out. He shoutedsomething at me. I couldn't hear what he said. "What?" I yelled.

"All leave's cancelled!"

That was enough for me. I rode into Nieppe like an infuriated cowboy. Iwent straight for the divisional headquarters, flung away the horse anddashed up into the building. I knew one or two of the officers there."What's this about leave?" I asked. "All about to be cancelled," was thereply. "If you're quick, you may get yours through, as you've been outhere long enough, and you're next to go." "What have I got to do?" Iscreamed. "Go to your Colonel, and ask him to wire the Corpsheadquarters and ask them to let you go; only you'll have to look sharpabout it."

He needn't have told me that. He had hardly finished before I wasoutside and making for my horse. I got out of Nieppe as quickly as Icould, and lit out for our battalion headquarters. About four miles togo, but I lost no time about it. "Leave cancelled!" I hissed through thetriangular gap in my front tooth, as I galloped along the road; "leavecancelled!"

I should have made a good film actor that day: "Dick Turpin's ride toYork" in two reels. I reached the turning off the high road all right,and pursued my wild career down the lanes which led to the Colonel'sheadquarters. The road wound about in a most ridiculous way, makingsalients out of ploughed fields on either side. I decided to throw allprudence to the winds, and cut across these. My horse evidently thoughtthis an excellent idea, for as soon as he got on the fields he was offlike a trout up stream. Most successful across the first salient, then,suddenly, I saw we were approaching a wide ditch. Leave _would_ becancelled as far as I was concerned if I tried to jump that, I feltcertain. I saw a sort of a narrow bridge about fifty yards to the right.Tried to persuade the horse to make for it. No, he believed in the ditchidea, and put on a sprint to jump it. Terrific battle between DickTurpin and Black Bess!

A foaming pause on the brink of the abyss. Dick Turpin wins theargument, and after a few prancing circles described in the fieldmanages to cross the bridge with his fiery steed. I then rode down theroad into the little village. The village school had been turned into abattalion stores, and the quartermaster-sergeant was invariably to befound there. I dismounted and pulled my horse up a couple of steps intothe large schoolroom. Tied him up here, and last saw him blowing cloudsof steam out of his nose on to one of those maps which show interestingforms of vegetable life with their Latin names underneath. Now for theColonel. I clattered off down the street to his temporary orderly room.Thank heaven, he was in! I explained the case to him. He said he woulddo his best, and there and then sent off a wire. I could do no more now,so after fixing up that a message should be sent me, I slowly retracedmy steps to the school, extracted the horse, and wended my way slowlyback to the Transport Farm. Here I languished for the rest of the day,feeling convinced that "all leave was cancelled." I sat down to do somesketching after tea, full of marmalade and depression. About 6 p.m. Ichucked it, and went and sat by the stove, smoking a pipe. Suddenly thedoor opened and a bicycle orderly came in: "There's a note from theAdjutant for you, sir."

I tore it open. "Your leave granted; you leave to-morrow. If you callhere in the morning, I'll give you your pass."

LEAVE!!

CHAPTER XX

THAT LEAVE TRAIN--MY OLD PAL--LONDONAND HOME--THE CALL OF THE WILD

One wants to have been at the front, in the nasty parts, to appreciatefully what getting seven days' leave feels like. We used to have to beout at the front for three consecutive months before being entitled tothis privilege. I had passed this necessary apprenticeship, and now hadactually got my leave.

[Illustration: Leave!!!]

The morning after getting my instructions I rose early, and packed thefew things I was going to take with me. Very few things they were, too.Only a pack and a haversack, and both contained nothing but souvenirs. Idecided to go to the station via the orderly room, so that I could doboth in one journey. I had about two miles to go from my billets to theorderly room in the village, and about a mile on from there to thestation. Some one suggested my riding--no fear; I was running no risksnow. I started off early with my servant. We took it in shifts with myheavy bags of souvenirs. One package (the pack) had four "Little Willie"cases inside, in other words, the cast-iron shell cases for the Germanequivalent of our 18-pounders. The haversack was filled with aluminiumfuse tops and one large piece of a "Jack Johnson" shell case. Mypockets--and I had a good number, as I was wearing my greatcoat--werefilled with a variety of objects. A pair of little clogs found in a roofat St. Yvon, several clips of German bullets removed from equipmentfound on Christmas Day, and a collection of bullets which I had pickedout with my pocket knife from the walls of our house in St. Yvon. Theonly additional luggage to this inventory I have given was my usualcopious supply of Gold Flake cigarettes, of which, during my life inFrance, I must have consumed several army corps.

It was a glorious day--bright, sunny, and a faint fresh wind. Everythingseemed bright and rosy. I felt I should have liked to skip along theroad like a young bay tree--no, that's wrong--like a ram, only I didn'tthink it would be quite the thing with my servant there (King'sRegulations: Chapter 158, paragraph 96, line 4); besides, he wasn'tgoing on leave, so it would have been rather a dirty trick after all.

[Illustration]

We got to the village with aching arms and souvenirs intact. I got mypass, and together with another officer we set out for the station. Itwas a leave train. Officers from all sorts of different battalions wereeither in it or going to get in, either here or at the next stop.

Having no wish to get that station into trouble, or myself either, bymentioning its name, I will call it Creme de Menthe. It was the samerotten little place I had arrived at. It is only because I am trying tosell the "station-master" a copy of this book that I call the place astation at all. It really is a decomposing collection of half-heartedbuildings and moss-grown rails, with an apology for a platform at oneside.

We caught the train with an hour to spare. You can't miss trains inFrance: there's too much margin allowed on the time-table. The 10.15leaves at 11.30, the 11.45 at 2.20, and so on; besides, if you did missyour train, you could always catch it up about two fields away, sothere's nothing to worry about.

We started. I don't know what time it was.

If you turn up the word "locomotion" in a dictionary, you will find itmeans "the act or power of moving from place to place"; from _locus_, aplace, and _motion_, the act of moving. Our engine had got the _locus_part all right, but was rather weak about the _motion_. We creaked andsqueaked about up the moss-grown track, and groaned our way back intothe station time after time, in order to tie on something else behindthe train, or to get on to a siding to let a trainload of trenchfloorboards and plum and apple jangle past up the line. When at last wereally started, it was about at the speed of the "Rocket" on its trialtrip.

Our enthusiastic "going on leave" ardour was severely tested, and nearlybroke down before we reached Boulogne, which we did late that night. Butgetting there, and mingling with the leave-going crowd which throngedthe buffet, made up for all travelling shortcomings. Every variety ofofficer and army official was represented there. There were colonels,majors, captains, lieutenants, quantities of private soldiers, sergeantsand corporals, hospital nurses and various other people employed in somewar capacity or other. Representatives from every branch of the Army, infact, whose turn for leave had come.

I left the buffet for a moment to go across to the Transport Office, andwalking along through the throng ran into my greatest friend. A mostextraordinary chance this! I had not the least idea whereabouts inFrance he was, or when he might be likely to get leave. His job was inquite a different part, many miles from the Douve. I have known him formany years; we were at school together, and have always seemed to havethe lucky knack of bobbing up to the surface simultaneously withoutprior arrangement. This meeting sent my spirits up higher than ever. Weboth adjourned to the buffet, and talked away about our variousexperiences to the accompaniment of cold chicken and ham. A merry scenetruly, that buffet--every one filled with thoughts of England. Nearlyevery one there must have stepped out of the same sort of mud and dangerbath that I had. And, my word! it is a first-class feeling: sittingabout waiting for the boat when you feel you've earned this seven days'leave. You hear men on all sides getting the last ounce of appreciationout of the unique sensation by saying such things as, "Fancy those poorblighters, sitting in the mud up there; they'll be just about gettingnear 'Stand to' now."

You rapidly dismiss a momentary flash in your mind of what it's going tobe like in that buffet on the return journey.

Early in the morning, and while it was still dark, we left the harbourand ploughed out into the darkness and the sea towards England.

I claim the honoured position of the world's worst sailor. I havecovered several thousand miles on the sea, "brooked the briny" as far asIndia and Canada. I have been hurtled about on the largest Atlanticwaves; yet I am, and always will remain, absolutely impossible at sea.Looking at the docks out of the hotel window nearly sends me to bed;there's something about a ship that takes the stuffing out of mecompletely. Whether it's that horrible pale varnished woodwork, mingledwith the smell of stuffy upholstery, or whether it's that nauseatingwhiff from the open hatch of the engine-room, I don't know; but once ona ship I am as naught ... not nautical.

Of course the Channel was going to be rough. I could see that at aglance. I know exactly what to do about the sea now. I go straight to abunk, and hope for the best; if no bunk--bribe the steward until thereis one.

I got a bunk, deserted my friend in a cheerless way, and retired tillthe crossing was over. It _was_ very rough....

In the cold grey hours we glided into Dover or Folkestone (I was tooanaemic to care which) and fastened up alongside the wharf. I had a dimrecollection of getting my pal to hold my pack as we left Boulogne, andnow I could see neither him nor the pack. Fearful crush struggling upthe gangway. I had to scramble for a seat in the London train, socouldn't waste time looking for my friend. I had my haversack--he hadmy pack.

The train moved off, and now here we all were back in clean, fresh,luxurious England, gliding along in an English train towards London.It's worth doing months and months of trenches to get that buoyant,electrical sensation of passing along through English country on one'sway to London on leave.

I spent the train journey thinking over what I should do during my sevendays. Time after time I mentally conjured up the forthcoming performanceof catching the train at Paddington and gliding out of the shadows ofthe huge station into the sunlit country beyond--the rapid expressjourney down home, the drive out from the station, back in my own landagain!

We got into London in pretty quick time, and I rapidly converted mydreams into facts.

Still in the same old trench clothes, with a goodly quantity of Flandersmud attached, I walked into Paddington station, and collared a seat inthe train on Number 1 platform. Then, collecting a quantity of papersand magazines from the bookstalls, I prepared myself for enjoying to thefull the two hours' journey down home.

I spent a gorgeous week in Warwickshire, during which time my friendcame along down to stay a couple of days with me, bringing my missingpack along with him. He had had the joy of carrying it laden with shellcases across London, and taking it down with him to somewhere nearAldershot, and finally bringing it to me without having kept any of thecontents ... Such is a true friend.

As this book deals with my wanderings in France I will not go intodetails of my happy seven days' leave. I now resume at the point where Iwas due to return to France. In spite of the joys of England as opposedto life in Flanders, yet a curious phenomenon presented itself at theend of my leave. I was anxious to get back. Strange, but true. Somehowone felt that slogging away out in the dismal fields of war was the realthing to do. If some one had offered me a nice, safe, comfortable job inEngland, I wouldn't have taken it. I claim no credit for this feeling ofmine. I know every one has the same. That buccaneering, rough and tumblelife out there has its attractions. The spirit of adventure is in mostpeople, and the desire and will to biff the Boches is in every one, sothere you are.

I drifted back via London, Dover and Boulogne, and thence up the sameold stagnant line to Creme de Menthe. Once more back in the land of mud,bullets, billets, and star shells.

It was the greyest of grey days when I arrived at my one-horse terminus.I got out at the "station," and had a solitary walk along the empty,muddy lanes, back to the Transport Farm.

Plodding along in the thin rain that was falling I thought of home,London, England, and then of the job before me. Another three months atleast before any further chance of leave could come my way again.Evening was coming on. Across the flat, sombre country I could see thetall, swaying poplar trees standing near the farm. Beyond lay the roughand rugged road which led to the Douve trenches.

How nice that leave had been! To-morrow night I should be going alongback to the trenches before Wulverghem.

CHAPTER XXI

BACK FROM LEAVE--THAT "BLINKIN' MOON"--JOHNSON 'OLES--TOMMY AND "FRIGHTFULNESS"--EXPLORING EXPEDITION

As I had expected, the battalion were just finishing their last days outin rest billets, and were going "in" the following night.

Reaction from leave set in for me with unprecedented violence. It washorrible weather, pouring with rain all the time, which made one'sdepression worse.

Leave over; rain, rain, rain; trenches again, and the future looked likebeing perpetually the same, or perhaps worse. Yet, somehow or other, inthese times of deep depression which come to every one now and again, Icannot help smiling. It has always struck me as an amusing thing thatthe world, and all the human beings thereon, do get themselves into suchcurious and painful predicaments, and then spend the rest of the timewishing they could get out.

My reflections invariably brought me to the same conclusion, that here Iwas, caught up in the cogs of this immense, uncontrollable war machine,and like every one else, had to, and meant to stick it out to the end.

The next night we went through all the approved formula for going intothe trenches. Started at dusk, and got into our respective mud cavitiesa few hours later. I went all round the trenches again, looking to seethat things were the same as when I left them, and, on the Colonel'sinstructions, started a series of alterations in several gun positions.There was one trench that was so obscured along its front by odd stumpsof trees that I decided the only good spot for a machine gun was rightat one end, on a road which led up to Messines. From here it would bepossible for us to get an excellent field of fire. To have this gun onthe road meant making an emplacement there somehow. That night westarted scheming it out, and the next evening began work on it. It was abright moonlight night, I remember, and my sergeant and I went out infront of our parapet, walked along the field and crept up the ditch alittle way, considering the machine-gun possibilities of the land. Thatmoonlight feeling is very curious. You feel as if the enemy can see youclearly, and that all eyes in the opposite trench are turned on you. Youcan almost imagine a Boche smilingly taking an aim, and saying to afriend, "We'll just let him come a bit closer first." Every one who hashad to go "out in front," wiring, will know this feeling. As a matter offact, it is astonishing how little one can see of men in the moonlight,even when the trenches are very close together. One gets quite used towalking about freely in this light, going out in front of the parapetand having a look round. The only time that really makes oneapprehensive is when some gang of men or other turn up from way backsomewhere, and have come to assist in some operation near the enemy.They, being unfamiliar with the caution needed, and unappreciative ofwhat it's like to have neighbours who "hate" you sixty yards away,generally bring trouble in their wake by one of the party shouting outin a deep bass or a shrill soprano, "'Ere, chuck us the 'ammer, 'Arry,"or something like that, following the remark up with a series ofvulcan-like blows on the top of an iron post. Result: three star shellssoar out into the frosty air, and a burst of machine-gun fire skims overthe top of your head.

We made a very excellent and strong emplacement on the road, and used ithenceforth. I had a lot of bother with one gun in those trenches, whichwas placed at very nearly the left-hand end of the whole line. I hadbeen obliged to fix the gun there, as it was very necessary fordominating a certain road. But when I took the place over from theprevious battalion, I thought there might be difficulties about this gunposition, and there were. The night before we had made our inspection ofthese trenches, a shell had landed right on top of the gun emplacementand had "outed" the whole concern, unfortunately killing two of the gunsection belonging to the former battalion. For some reason or other thatend of our line was always being shelled. Just in the same way as theyplunked shells daily into St. Yvon, so they did here. Each morning, withhardly ever a miss, they shelled our trenches, but almost invariably inthe same place: the left-hand end. The difference between St. Yvon andthis place was, however, that here they always shelled with "heavies."Right back at the Douve farm a mile away, the thundering crash of one ofthese shells would rattle all the windows and make one say, "Where didthat one go?"

All round that neighbourhood it seemed to have been the fashion, pastand present, to use the largest shells. In going along the Douve oneday, I made a point of measuring and examining several of the holes. Itook a photograph of one, with my cap resting on one side of it, to showthe relative proportion and give an idea of the size. It was aboutfourteen feet in diameter, and seven feet deep. The largest shell hole Ihave ever seen was over twenty feet in diameter and about twelve feetdeep. The largest hole I have seen, made by an implement of war, thoughnot by a gun or a howitzer, was larger still, and its size was colossal.I refer to a hole made by one of our trench mortars, but regret that Idid not measure it. Round about our farm were a series of holes ofimmense size, showing clearly the odium which that farm had incurred,and was incurring; but, whilst I was in it, nothing came in through theroof or walls. I have since learnt that that old farm is no more, havingbeen shelled out of existence. All my sketches on those plaster wallsform part of a slack heap, surrounded by a moat.

Well, this persistent shelling of the left-hand end of our trenchesmeant a persistent readjustment of our parapets, and putting things backagain. Each morning the Boches would knock things down, and each eveningwe would put them up again. Our soldiers are only amused by thisprocedure. Their humorously cynical outlook at the Boche temper rendersthem impervious to anything the Germans can ever do or think of. Theiroutlook towards a venomous German attempt to do something "frightfully"nasty, is very similar to a large and powerful nurse dealing with afractious child--sort of: "Now, then, Master Frankie, you mustn't kickand scream like that."

One can almost see a group of stolid, unimaginative, non-humorousGermans, taking all things with their ridiculous seriousness, sendingoff their shells, and pulling hateful faces at the same time. You cansee our men sending over a real stiff, quietening answer, with asporting twinkle in the eye, perhaps jokingly remarking, as a shell ispushed into the gun, "'Ere's one for their Officers' Mess, Bert."

On several evenings I had to go round and arrange for the reconstructionof the ruined parapet or squashed-in dug-outs. It was during one ofthese little episodes that I felt the spirit of my drawing, "There goesour blinking parapet again," which I did sometime later. I never wentabout looking for ideas for drawings; the whole business of the warseemed to come before me in a series of pictures. Jokes used to stickout of all the horrible discomfort, something like the points of aharrow would stick into you if you slept on it.

I used to visit all the trenches, and look up the various companycommanders and platoon commanders in the same way as I did at St. Yvon.I got a splendid idea of all the details of our position; all thevarious ways from one part of it to another. As I walked back to theDouve farm at night, nearly always alone, I used to keep on exploringthe wide tract of land that lay behind our trenches. "I'll have a lookat that old cottage up on the right to-night," I used to say to myself,and later, when the time came for me to walk back from the trenches, Iwould go off at a new angle across the plain, and make for my objective.Once inside, and feeling out of view of the enemy, I would go round thedeserted rooms and lofts by the light of a few matches, and if the houselooked as if it would prove of interest, I would return the next nightwith a candle-end, and make an examination of the whole thing. They areall very much alike, these houses in Flanders; all seem to contain thesame mangled remains of simple, homely occupations. Strings of onions,old straw hats, and clogs, mixed with an assortment of cheap clothing,with perhaps here and there an umbrella or a top hat. That is about theclass of stuff one found in them. After one of these expeditions I wouldgo on back across the plain, along the corduroy boards or by the bank ofthe river, to our farm.

CHAPTER XXII

A DAYLIGHT STALK--THE DISUSED TRENCH--"DID THEY SEE ME?"--A GOOD SNIPINGPOSITION

Our farm was, as I have remarked, a mile from the trenches at thenearest part, and about a mile and a half from the furthest. Wulverghemwas about half a mile behind the farm.

As time went on at these Douve trenches, I became more and more familiarwith the details of the surrounding country, for each day I used tocreep out of the farm, and when I had crossed the moat by a small woodenbridge at the back, I would go off into the country near by looking ateverything. One day the Colonel expressed a wish to know whether it waspossible to get up into our trenches in day time without being seen. Ofcourse any one could have gone to the trenches, and been momentarilyseen here and there, and could have done so fairly safely and easily bysimply walking straight up, taking advantage of what little cover therewas; but to get right up without showing at all, was rather a poser, asall cover ceased about a hundred yards behind the trenches.

The idea of trying attracted me. One morning I crept along the raggedhedge, on the far side of the moat which led to the river, and startedout for the trenches. I imagined a German with a powerful pair ofbinoculars looking down on the plain from the Messines Hill, withnothing better to do than to see if he could spot some one walkingabout. Keeping this possibility well in mind, I started my stalk up tothe trenches with every precaution.

I crept along amongst the trees bordering the river for a considerabledistance, but as one neared the trenches, these got wider apart, and asthe river wound about a lot there were places where to walk from onetree to the next, one had to walk parallel to the German trenches andquite exposed, though, of course, at a considerable range off. I stillbore in mind my imaginary picture of the gentleman with binoculars,though, so I got down near the water's edge and moved along,half-concealed by the bank. Soon I reached the farms, and by dodgingabout amongst the scattered shrubs and out-houses, here and therecrawling up a ditch, I got into one of the farm buildings. I sat in itamongst a pile of old clothes, empty tins and other oddments, and had asmoke, thinking the while on how I could get from these farms across thelast bit of open space which was the most difficult of all.

I finished my cigarette, and began the stalk again. Another difficultypresented itself. I found that it was extremely difficult to cross fromthe second last farm to the last one, as the ground was completely open,and rather sloped down towards the enemy. This was not apparent whenlooking at the place at night, for then one never bothers aboutconcealment, and one walks anywhere and anyhow. But now the questionwas, how to do it. I crept down to the river again, and went along therefor a bit, looking for a chance of leaving it under cover for the farm.

Coming to a narrow, cart-rutted lane a little further on, I was juststarting to go up it when, suddenly, a bright idea struck me. An oldzig-zag communication trench (a relic of a bygone period) left the laneon the right, and apparently ran out across the field to within a fewyards of the furthest farm. Once there, I had only a hundred yards moreto do.

I entered the communication trench. It was just a deep, narrow slot cutacross the field, and had, I should imagine, never been used. I thinkthe enormous amount of water in it had made it a useless work. I saw nosign of it ever having been used. A fearful trench it was, with a deepdeposit of dark green filthy, watery mud from end to end.

This, I could see, was the only way up to the farm, so I made the bestof it. I resigned myself to getting thoroughly wet through. Quiteunavoidable. I plunged into this unwholesome clay ditch and went along,each step taking me up to my thighs in soft dark ooze, whilst here andthere the water was so deep as to force me to scoop out holes in theclay at the side when, by leaning against the opposite side, with myfeet in the holes, I could slowly push my way along. In time I got tothe other end, and sat down to think a bit. As I sat, a bullet suddenlywhacked into the clay parapet alongside of me, which stimulated mythinking a bit. "Had I been seen?" I tried to find out, and reassuremyself before going on. I put my hat on top of a stick and brought it upabove the parapet at two or three points to try and attract anothershot; but no, there wasn't another, so I concluded the first one hadbeen accidental, and went on my way again. By wriggling along behind anundulation in the field, and then creeping from one tree to another, Iat last managed to get up into our reserve trenches, where I obtained myfirst daylight, close-up view of our trenches, German trenches, andgeneral landscape; all laid out in panorama style.

In front of me were our front-line trenches, following the line of thelittle stream which ran into the Douve on the right. On the far side ofthe stream the ground gently rose in a long slope up to Messines, whereyou could see a shattered mass of red brick buildings with the old greytower in the middle. At a distance of from about two to four hundredyards away lay the German trenches, parallel to ours, their barbed wireglistening in the morning sunlight.

"This place I'm in is a pretty good place for a sniper to hitch up," Ithought to myself. "Can see everything there is to be seen from here."

After a short stocktaking of the whole scene, I turned and wallowed myway back to the farm. Some few days later they did make a sniper's postof that spot, and a captain friend of mine, with whom I spent manyquaint and dismal nights in St. Yvon, occupied it. He was the "star"shot of the battalion, an expert sniper, and, I believe, made quite agood bag.

Our farm was one of a cluster of three or four, each approximately acouple of hundred yards apart. It was perhaps the largest and the mostpreserved of the lot. It was just the same sort of shape as all Flemishfarms--a long building running round three sides of the yard, in themiddle of which there was an oblong tank, used for collecting all therubbish and drainage.

The only difference about our farm was, we had a moat. Very superior toall the cluster in consequence. Sometime or other the moat must havebeen very effective; but when I was there, only about a quarter of itcontained water. The other three-quarters was a sort of bog, or marsh,its surface broken up by large shell holes. On the driest part of this Idiscovered a row of graves, their rough crosses all battered and bentdown. I just managed to discern the names inscribed; they were allFrench. Names of former heroes who had participated in some action orother months before. Going out into the fields behind the farm, I foundmore French graves, enclosed in a rectangular graveyard that had beenroughly made with barbed wire and posts, each grave surmounted with thedead soldier's hat. Months of rough wintry weather had beaten down thefaded cloth cap into the clay mound, and had started the obliteration ofthe lettering on the cross. A few more months; and cross, mound and hatwill all have merged back into the fields of Flanders.

Beyond these fields, about half a mile distant, lay Wulverghem. Lookingat what you can see of this village from the Douve farm, it looksexceedingly pretty and attractive. A splendid old church tower could beseen between the trees, and round about it were clustered the red roofsof a fair-sized village. It has, to my mind, a very nice situation. Inthe days before the war it must have been a pleasing place to live in. Iwent to have a look at it one day. It's about as fine a sample of whatthese Prussians have brought upon Belgian villages as any I have seen.The village street is one long ruin. On either side of the road, all thehouses are merely a collection of broken tiles and shattered bricks andframework. Huge shell holes punctuate the street. I had seen a good manymutilated villages before this, but I remember thinking this was as bad,if not worse, than any I had yet seen. I determined to explore some ofthe houses and the church.

I went into one house opposite the church. It had been quite a nicehouse once, containing about ten rooms. It was full of all sorts ofthings. The evacuation had evidently been hurried. I went into the frontright-hand room first, and soon discovered by the books and picturesthat this had been the Cure's house. It was in a terrible state.Religious books in French and Latin lay about the floor in a vastdisorder, some with the cover and half the book torn off by the effectof an explosion. Pictures illustrating Bible scenes, images, and otherprobably cherished objects, smashed and ruined, hung about the walls, orfragmentary portions of them lay littered about on the floor.

A shell hole of large proportions had rent a gash in the outer frontwall, leaving the window woodwork, bricks and wall-paper piled up in aheap on the floor, partially obliterating a large writing desk. Privatepapers lay about in profusion, all dirty, damp and muddy. The remains ofa window blind and half its roller hung in the space left by the absentwindow, and mournfully tapped against the remnant of the framework inthe light, cold breeze that was blowing in from outside. Place thisscene in your imagination in some luxuriant country vicarage in England,and you will get an idea of what Belgium has had to put up with fromthese Teutonic madmen. I went into all the rooms; they were in very muchthe same state. In the back part of the house the litter was added to byempty tins and old military equipment. Soldiers had evidently had tolive there temporarily on their way to some part of our lines. I heard amovement in the room opposite the one I had first gone into; I went backand saw a cat sitting in the corner amongst a pile of leather-backedbooks. I made a movement towards it, but with a cadaverous, wild glareat me, it sprang through the broken window and disappeared.

The church was just opposite the priest's house. I went across the roadto look at it. It was a large reddish-grey stone building, pretty old, Ishould say, and surrounded by a graveyard. Shell holes everywhere; theold, grey grave stones and slabs cracked and sticking about at oddangles. As I entered by the vestry door I noticed the tower was fairlyall right, but that was about the only part that was. Belgium andNorthern France are full of churches which have been sadly knockedabout, and all present very much the same appearance. I will describethis one to give you a sample. I went through the vestry into the mainpart of the church, deciding to examine the vestry later. The roof hadhad most of the tiles blown off, and underneath them the roofing-boardshad been shattered into long narrow strips. Fixed at one end to what wasleft of the rafters they flapped slowly up and down in the air likelengths of watch-spring. Below, on the floor of the church, the chairswere tossed about in the greatest possible disorder, and here and therea dozen or so had been pulverized by the fall of an immense block ofmasonry. Highly coloured images were lying about, broken and twisted.The altar candelabra and stained-glass windows lay in a heap togetherbehind a pulpit, the front of which had been knocked off by a fallingpillar. One could walk about near some of the broken images, and pick uplittle candles and trinkets which had been put in and around the shrine,off the floor and from among the mass of broken stones and mortar. Thevestry, I found, was almost complete. Nearly trodden out of recognitionon the floor, I found a bright coloured hand-made altar cloth, which Ithen had half a mind to take away with me, and post it back to someparson in England to put in his church. I only refrained from carryingout this plan as I feared that the difficulties of getting it away wouldbe too great. I left the church, and looked about some of the otherhouses, but none proved as pathetically interesting as the church andthe vicar's house, so I took my way out across the fields again towardsthe Douve farm.

Not a soul about anywhere. Wulverghem lay there, empty, wrecked anddeserted. I walked along the river bank for a bit, and had got about twohundred yards from the farm when the quiet morning was interrupted inthe usual way, by shelling. Deep-toned, earth-shaking crashes broke intothe quiet peaceful air. "Just in the same place," I observed to myselfas I walked along behind our left-hand trenches. I could see the cloudof black smoke after each one landed, and knew exactly where they were."Just in the same old--hullo! hullo!" With that rotating, gurglingwhistle a big one had just sailed over and landed about fifty yards fromour farm! I nipped in across the moat, through the courtyard, andexplained to the others where it had landed. We all remained silent,waiting for the next. Here it came, gurgling along through the air; apause, then "Crumph!"--nearly in the same place again, but, if anything,nearer the next farm. The Colonel moved to the window and looked out."They're after that farm," he said, as he turned away slowly and strucka match by the fireplace to light his pipe with. About half a dozenshells whizzed along in close succession, and about four hit and wentinto the roof of the next farm.

Presently I looked out of the window again, and saw a lot of our menmoving out of the farm and across the road into the field beyond. Therewas a reserve trench here, so they went into it. I looked again, andsoon saw the reason. Dense columns of smoke were coming out of the strawroof, and soon the whole place was a blazing ruin. Nobody in the leastperturbed; we all turned away from the window and wondered how soonthey'd "have our farm."

CHAPTER XXIV

THAT RATION FATIGUE----SKETCHES INREQUEST--BAILLEUL--BATHS ANDLUNATICS--HOW TO CONDUCT A WAR

[Illustration: T]

They seemed to me long, dark, dismal days, those days spent in the Douvetrenches; longer, darker and more dismal than the Plugstreet ones. Nightafter night I crossed the dreary mud flat, passed the same old wretchedfarms, and went on with the same old trench routine. We all consideredthe trenches a pretty rotten outfit; but every one was fully prepared toaccept far rottener things than that. There was never the least sign offlagging determination in any man there, and I am sure you could say thesame of the whole front.

And, really, some jobs on some nights wanted a lot of beating forundesirability. Take the ration party's job, for instance. Think of therottenest, wettest, windiest winter's night you can remember, and add toit this bleak, muddy, war-worn plain with its ruined farms andshell-torn lonely road. Then think of men, leaving the trenches at dusk,going back about a mile and a half, and bringing sundry large and heavyboxes up to the trenches, pausing now and again for a rest, and ignoringthe intermittent crackling of rifle fire in the darkness, and the sharp"_phit_" of bullets hitting the mud all around. Think of that as yourportion each night and every night. When you have finished this job, therest you get consists of coiling yourself up in a damp dug-out. Nightafter night, week after week, month after month, this job is done bythousands. As one sits in a brilliantly illuminated, comfortable, warmtheatre, having just come from a cosy and luxurious restaurant, justthink of some poor devil half-way along those corduroy boards strugglingwith a crate of biscuits; the ration "dump" behind, the trenches on infront. When he has finished he will step down into the muddy slush of atrench, and take his place with the rest, who, if need be, will go ondoing that job for another ten years, without thinking of analternative. The Germans made a vast mistake when they thought they hadgauged the English temperament.

* * * * *

We went "in" and "out" of those trenches many times. During theseintervals of "out" I began to draw pictures more and more. It had becomeknown that I drew these trench pictures, not only in our battalion butin several others, and at various headquarters I got requests for fouror five drawings at a time. About three weeks after I returned fromleave, I had to move my billeting quarters. I went to a farm called "Lapetite Monque"; I don't know how it's really spelt, but that's what thename sounded like. Here I lived with the officers of A Company, and ajolly pleasant crew they were. We shared a mess together, and had onebig room and one small room between us. There were six of us altogether.The Captain had the little room and the bed in it, whilst we all sleptround the table on the floor in the big room. Here, in the daytime, whenI was not out with the machine-gun sections, I drew several pictures.The Brigadier-General of our brigade took a particular fancy to onewhich he got from me. The divisional headquarters had half a dozen;whilst I did two sets of four each for two officers in the regiment.

Sometimes we would go for walks around the country, and occasionallymade an excursion as far as Bailleul, about five miles away. Bailleulheld one special attraction for us. There were some wonderfully goodbaths there. The fact that they were situated in the lunatic asylumrather added to their interest.

The first time I went there, one of the subalterns in A Company was mycompanion. We didn't particularly want to walk all the way, so wedecided to get down to the high road as soon as we could, and try andget a lift in a car. With great luck we managed to stop a fairly emptycar, and got a lift. It was occupied by a couple of French soldiers whowillingly rolled us along into Bailleul. Once there, we walked throughthe town and out to the asylum close by. I expect by now the lunaticshave been called up under the group system; but in those days they werethere, and pulled faces at us as we walked up the wide gravel drive tothe grand portals of the building. They do make nice asylums over there.This was a sort of Chatsworth or Blenheim to look at. Inside it wasfitted up in very great style: long carpeted corridors opening out intosort of domed winter gardens, something like the snake house at the Zoo.We came at length to a particularly lofty, domed hall, from which openedseveral large bathrooms. Splendid places. A row of large white enamelledbaths along one wall, cork mats on the floor, and one enormous centralwater supply, hot and cold, which you diverted to whichever bath youchose by means of a long flexible rubber pipe. Soap, sponges, towels,_ad lib_. You can imagine what this palatial water grotto meant to us,when, at other times, our best bath was of saucepan capacity, taken onthe cold stone floor of a farm room. We lay and boiled the trenches outof our systems in that palatial asylum. Glorious! lying back in a longwhite enamel bath in a warm foggy atmosphere of steam, watching one'stoes floating in front. When this was over, and we had been grimaced offthe premises by "inmates" at the windows, we went back into Bailleuland made for the "Faucon d'Or," an old hotel that stands in the square.Here we had a civilized meal. Tablecloth, knives, forks, spoons, waitedon, all that sort of thing. You could have quite a good dinner here ifyou liked. A curious thought occurred to me then, and as it occurs againto me now I write it down. Here it is: If the authorities gave onepermission, one could have rooms at the Faucon d'Or and go to the wardaily. It would be quite possible to, say, have an early dinner, tabled'hote (with, say, a half-bottle of Salmon and Gluckstein), get intoone's car and go to the trenches, spend the night sitting in a smalldamp hole in the ground, or glaring over the parapet, and after "standto" in the morning, go back in the car in time for breakfast. Of course,if there was an attack, the car would have to wait--that's all; and ofcourse you would come to an understanding with the hotel management thatthe terms were for meals taken in the hotel, and that if you had toremain in the trenches the terms must be reduced accordingly.

[Illustration: I hear you callin' me]

A curious war this; you _can_ be at a table d'hote dinner, a music-hallentertainment afterwards, and within half an hour be enveloped in themost uncomfortable, soul-destroying trench ever known. I said you canbe; I wish I could say you always are.

The last time I was at Bailleul, not many months ago, I heard that wecould no longer have baths at the asylum; I don't know why. I think someone told me why, but I can't remember. Whether it was the baths had beenshelled, or whether the lunatics objected, it is impossible for me tosay; but there's the fact, anyway. "Na Pu" baths at Bailleul.

The Douve trenches claimed our battalion for a long time. We went in andout with monotonous regularity, and I went on with my usual work withmachine guns. The whole place became more and more depressing to me, andyet, somehow, I have got more ideas for my pictures from this part ofthe line than any other since or before. One's mental outlook, I find,varies very much from day to day. Some days there were on which I feltquite merry and bright, and strode along on my nightly rambles, calmlyignoring bullets as they whisked about. At other times I felt thoroughlydepressed and weary. As time wore on at the Douve, I felt myself gettinginto a state when it took more and more out of me to keep up my vigour,and suppress my imagination. There were times when I experienced analmost irresistible desire to lie down and sleep during some of my nightwalks. I would feel an overwhelming desire to ignore the rain and mud,and just coil up in a farm amongst the empty tins and rubbish and sleep,sleep, sleep. I looked forward to sleep to drown out the worries of thedaily and nightly life. In fact, I was slowly getting ill, I suppose.The actual rough and ready life didn't trouble me at all. I was botheredwith the _idea_ of the whole thing. The unnatural atmosphere of thingsthat one likes and looks upon as pleasing, peaceful objects in ordinarytimes, seemed now to obsess me. It's hard to describe; but the followinggives a faint idea of my feelings at this time. Instead of deriving asense of peace and serenity from picturesque country farms, old trees,setting suns, and singing birds, here was this wretched war businesshashing up the whole thing. A farm was a place where you expected ashell through the wall any minute; a tree was the sort of thing thegunners took to range on; a sunset indicated a quantity of light inwhich it was unsafe to walk abroad. Birds singing were a mockery. Allthis sort of thing bothered me, and was slowly reducing my physicalcapacity to "stick it out." But I determined I would stick to the ship,and so I did. The periodical going out to billets and making merry therewas a thing to look forward to. Every one comes up in a rebound ofspirits on these occasions. In the evenings there, sitting round thetable, writing letters, talking, and occasionally having other membersof the regiment in to a meal or a call of some sort, made things quitepleasant. There was always the post to look forward to. Quite a thrillwent round the room when the door opened and a sergeant came in with anarmful of letters and parcels.

Yet during all this latter time at the Douve I longed for a change intrench life. Some activity, some march to somewhere or other; anythingto smash up the everlasting stagnant appearance of life there. Suddenlythe change came. We were told we had to go out a day before one of ourusual sessions in the trenches was ended. We were all immensely pleased.We didn't know where we were bound for, but, anyway, we were going. Thisnews revived me enormously, and everything looked brighter. Thedeparture-night came, and company by company we handed over to abattalion that had come to relieve us, and collected on the road leadingback to Neuve Eglise. I handed over all my gun emplacements to theincoming machine-gun officer, and finally collected my various sectionswith all their tackle on the road as well. We merely marched back to ourusual billets that night, but next morning had orders to get all ourbaggage ready for the transport wagons. We didn't know where we weregoing, but at about eleven o'clock in the morning we started off on themarch, and soon realized that our direction was Bailleul.

On a fine, clear, warm spring day we marched along, all in the best ofspirits, songs of all sorts being sung one after the other. As I marchedalong in the rear of the battalion, at the head of my machine-gunsection, I selected items from their repertoire and had them sung "byrequest." I had some astonishingly fine mouth-organists in my section.When we had "In the trail of the Lonesome Pine" sung by half thesection, with mouth-organ accompaniment by the other half, the effectwas enormous. We passed several battalions of my regiment on the road,evidently bound for the Armentieres direction. Shouts, jokes and muchmirth showed the kindred spirits of the passing columns. All battalionsof the same regiment, all more or less recruited in the same counties.When we reached Bailleul we halted in the Square, and then I learnt wewere to be billeted there. There was apparently some difficulty ingetting billets, and so I was faced with the necessity of finding somefor my section myself. The transport officer was in the same fix; hewanted a large and commodious farm whenever he hitched up countless ashe had a crowd of horses, wagons and men to put up somehow. He and Idecided to start out and look for billets on our own.

I found a temporary rest for my section in an old brickyard on theoutskirts of the town, and the transport officer and I started out tolook for a good farm which we could appropriate.

Bailleul stands on a bit of a hill, so you can get a wide and extensiveview of the country from there. We could see several farms perchedabout in the country. We fixed on the nearest, and walked out to it. Noluck; they were willing to have us, but it wasn't big enough. We triedanother; same result. I then suggested we should separate, and each trydifferent roads, and thus we should get one quicker. This we did, Igoing off up a long straight road, and finally coming to a mostpromising looking edifice on one side--a real large size in farms.

I went into the yard and walked across the dirty cobbles to the frontdoor. The people were most pleasant. I didn't understand a word theysaid; but when a person pushes a flagon of beer into one of your handsand an apple into the other, one concludes he means to be pleasant,anyway.

I mumbled a lot of jargon to them for some time, and I really believethey saw that I wanted to use their place for a billet. The owner, a manof about forty-five, then started a long and hardy discussion right atme. He put on a serious face at intervals, so I guessed there wassomething rather important he was trying to convey to me. I was savedfrom giving my answer by catching sight of my pal, the transportofficer, crossing the yard. He came in. "I've brought Jean along totalk," he announced. (Jean was our own battalion interpreter.) "I can'tfind a place; but this looks all right." Jean and the owner at oncedived off into a labyrinth of unintelligible words, from which theyemerged five minutes later. We sat around and listened. Jean turned tous and remarked: "They have got fever here, he says, what you call thespotted fever--how you say, spotted fever?--and this farm is out ofbounds."

"Oh! spotted fever! I see!" we both said, and slid away out of that farmpretty quick. So that was what that farmer was trying to say to me:spotted fever!

I went down the road wondering whether cerebral meningitis germspreferred apples or beer, or perhaps they liked both; awful thought!

We went back to our original selection and decided to somehow or othersqueeze into the farm which we thought too small. Many hours later wegot the transport and the machine-gun section fixed up. We spent twonights there. On the second day I went up into Bailleul. Walking alongin the Square, looking at the shops and market stalls, I ran into thebrigade machine-gun officer.

"Topping about our brigade, isn't it?" he said.

"What's topping?" I asked.

"Why, we're going to have about ten day's rest; we clear off out of hereto-morrow to a village about three miles away, and our battalion willbillet there. Where we go after that I don't know; but, anyway, tendays' rest. Ten days' rest!!"

On the next morning we left Bailleul, and the whole of our battalionmarched off down one of the roads leading out into the country in awesterly direction. The weather was now excellent; so what with aprospect of a rest, fine weather and the departure from the Wulverghemtrenches, we were all very merry and bright, and "going strong" allround. It seemed to us as if we had come out of some dark, wetunder-world into a bright, wholesome locality, suitable for thehabitation of man.

Down the long, straight, dusty road we marched, hop yards and brightcoloured fields on either side, here and there passing prosperouslooking farms and estaminets: what a pleasant change it was from thatruined, dismal jungle we had so recently left! About three or four milesout we came to a village; the main road ran right through it, formingits principal street. On either side small lanes ran out at right anglesinto the different parts of the village. We received the order to halt,and soon learnt that this was the place where we were to have our tendays' rest. A certain amount of billets had been arranged for, but, asis generally the case, the machine-gun section have to search around forthemselves; an advantage really, as they generally find a better cribthis way than if somebody else found it for them. As soon as we were"dismissed," I started off on a billet search. The transport officer wasagain with me on the same quest. We separated, and each searched adifferent part of the village. The first house I went into was a dismalfailure. An old woman of about 84 opened the door about six inches, andwas some time before she permitted the aperture to widen sufficiently toallow me to go inside the house. A most dingy, poky sort of a place, soI cleared off to search for something better. As I crossed the farmyardbehind, my servant, who had been conducting a search on his own,suddenly appeared round the corner of the large barn at the end of theyard, and came towards me.

"I've found a place over 'ere, Sir, I expect you'll like."

"Where?" I asked.

"This way, Sir!" and he led the way across a field to a gate, which weclimbed. We then went down a sort of back lane to the village, andturned in at a small wicket-gate leading to a row of cottages. He led meup to one in the centre, and knocked at the door. A woman opened it, andI told her what I was looking for. She seemed quite keen for us to gothere, and asked if there was anyone else to come there with me. I toldher the transport officer would be coming there too, and our twoservants. She quite agreed to this, and showed me the rooms we couldhave. They were extremely small, but we decided to have them. "Them"consisted of one bedroom, containing two beds, the size of the roombeing about fourteen feet by eight, and the front kitchen-sitting-roomplace, which was used by everybody in the house, and was about twice thesize of the bedroom. I went away and found the transport officer,brought him back and showed him the place. He thought it a good spot,so we arranged to fix up there.

Our servants started in to put things right for us, get our baggagethere, and so on, whilst I went off to see to billets for themachine-gun section. I had got them a pretty good barn, attached to thefarm I first called at, but I wanted to go and see that it was reallylarge enough and suitable when they had all got in and spreadthemselves. I found that it did suit pretty well. The space was none toolarge, but I felt sure we wouldn't find a better. There was a good fieldfor all the limbers and horses adjoining, so on the whole it was quite aconvenient place. The section had already got to work with their cookingthings, and had a fire going out in the field. Those gunners were a veryself-contained, happy throng; they all lived together like a family, andwere all very keen on their job.

I returned to my cottage to see how things were progressing. My man hadunrolled my valise, and put all my things out and about in the bedroom.I took off all my equipment, which I was still wearing, pack,haversacks, revolver, binoculars, map case, etc., and sat down in thekitchen to take stock of the situation. I now saw what the familyconsisted of; and by airing my feeble French, I found out who they wereand what they did. The woman who had come to the door was the wife of apainter and decorator, who had been called up, and was in a Frenchregiment somewhere in Alsace.

Another girl who was there was a friend, and really lived next door withher sister, but owing to overcrowding, due to our servants and someFrench relatives, she spent most of her time in the house I was in.

The owner of the place was Madame Charlet-Flaw, Christian name Suzette.The other two girls were, respectively, Berthe and Marthe. Ages of allthree in the order I have mentioned them were, I should say,twenty-eight, twenty-four, and twenty. The place had, I found, been usedas billets before. I discovered this in two ways.